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Chapter 3: A Shattered State
🕑 Added 2025-10-18 12:29:20 +0000 UTCChapter 3: A Shattered State
Once again, the God-Emperor's might raised the Holy Sun from the horizon, bathing the world in light and feeding the grapes and olives on the hillsides. On Lemnos III, it was a day like any other.
On the main continent, the landmass curved like a great "C," creating a vast, sheltered inland sea.
In the continent's northern region, in the mountain forests belonging to House Palus of the City-State of Nopae, Skaman Palus was riding. He was on a hunt, flanked by his clansmen and allies, mounted on their cloven-hoof steeds. They were hunting giant boars and stags. As the Patriarch of House Palus, Skaman had always found the hunt to be the perfect political tool. Those who came were either family or his closest allies. It was a chance to strengthen bonds while protecting the family's vineyards and wheat fields from the beasts.
The current Consul's term was almost over. If Skaman could secure the support of enough senatorial families, they could finally end House Grandi's decade-long hold on the office.
As always, the hunt came first, a chance for the young bloods to burn off their energy. After the exhilarating chase would come the feast. The energetic youths would trade stories, wrestle, or duel.
The elders, like Skaman, would recline on couches, enjoying wine and roasted meat, discussing the politics and trade of the surrounding city-states.
Skaman pulled his thoughts back to the present. The hunt was still on. The young men held their reins tight, spears and javelins ready, all eager to claim the heart of the beast.
Skaman himself merely pulled his steed along, keeping pace with the group. He reached up and stroked his lightly greying beard, watching the vibrant young warriors.
He was getting old. The opportunities had to be left for the young, just as his father had once left the honor of the lion-kill for him. When he was gone, his eldest son would take his place. These young men were the future of the House. They were the future rulers.
"Wine."
Skaman held his hand out to his steward, who ran alongside his steed. The steward immediately passed him the wineskin. Skaman bit the cork plug and tilted his head back, letting the sweet wine flow down his throat. He felt the gurgle as it went down, but at the same moment, he felt a strange buzzing in his head. The air itself seemed to be vibrating. He must be getting sunstroke.
"My Lord! My Lord!"
Skaman felt his steward shaking his leg. This annoyed him. The man had served him for decades; had he forgotten his manners? He would feel the whip for this later. Skaman decided to finish his drink first, ignoring the steward's shaking. The buzzing in his ears grew louder, then escalated into a terrible, deafening roar that assaulted his eardrums.
"My Lord, my Lord!" The steward's shaking became more violent. Skaman had no choice but to lower the wineskin.
A sudden, violent wind kicked up dust from the hillside, forcing him to squint. Even his cloven-hoof steed became agitated, rearing against the gale. Skaman looked up, and his hand went slack. The wineskin slipped from his grasp and fell to the earth. He could only utter one phrase:
"Emperor preserve us."
A silver dragon was flying towards them from the heavens. It had short, stunted wings and a massive body, and it was breathing fire as it descended vertically from the sky. As it touched down, the dragon's fiery breath finally subsided.
Its belly slowly opened, and giant men of steel strode out with heavy, rapid steps. There were seventeen of them. The mere sight of these giants filled the hunting party with a primal terror that rooted them to the spot. It was as if this was the natural order of things.
The servants began to kneel, praying and weeping. The young hunters were equally terrified, frozen in place. Skaman was little better, but decades of life experience let him react a fraction faster. He realized the dragon and the steel giants looked... similar... to the murals in the Imperial Sanctum. The stories of the God-Emperor's steel-wrought Angels, tearing open the sky to deliver the wisdom of the first Saints.
The lead steel giant strode directly to Skaman. With a hiss of depressurizing seals, he reached up and removed his helmet, revealing a face that looked younger than Skaman's own.
"Do you speak High Gothic?"
The Angel spoke. His voice was a low, resonant bass, but it calmed Skaman. At least they were human in form. Though he looked young, Skaman knew better than to judge an Angel's age by mortal standards.
"I... I do."
The language was said to have been passed down from the Emperor's original servants. Though rarely used, every member of the city-states' upper classes was required to learn it. Or at least, they once were.
The Angel pointed a gauntleted finger at the servants, who were trembling uncontrollably on the ground.
"Who are they?"
"My... my steward and my servants, my Lord."
"Good."
Good? What was good? Before Skaman could process the word, the Angel's next action shattered every image of mercy the priests of the Merciful Hand had ever taught him.
The lead Angel grabbed his steward, who was kneeling on the ground, and drew a knife from his beltβa blade as long as a short sword. The steward looked up at Skaman, his eyes pleading with the man he had grown up with, but Skaman was frozen, swallowing hard, not daring to move.
Petros jammed the combat knife into the steward's skull and twisted it, carving a circle. He ignored the man's muffled screams and struggles, placed his other hand on the skullcap, and pulled. Like opening a coconut, he tore the top of the man's head free, exposing the pale, soft tissue within.
At the same time, the other Angels followed their leader's example, seizing the other servants. Phelon, the one with the metal tentacles, grabbed a young hunter and dragged him from his steed, lifting him like a hatchling. Phelon didn't even bother with the "opening" process. He simply opened his cavernous jaw and bit down on the man's head.
What happened next sent Skaman's stomach heaving. The priests of the Chastisement Faction had been right. The Angels were the Emperor's warriors. They were vengeance. They were death. They were the blade brought to the heretic and the rebel. They had nothing to do with mercy.
Petros closed his eyes, concentrating, activating his Omophagea. It was one of the nineteen genetic implants he had received. This organ allowed a gene-forged warrior to extract and process the genetic material that stored memory, absorbing the knowledge of an enemy by consuming its flesh. In theory, the organ could be consciously controlled, but some Astartes had implants that were weak, non-functional, or, far worse, overactive.
He focused, sifting through the mortal's memories, discarding the trivial, absorbing the necessary: geography, politics, faith, language. As the superhuman organ did its work, Petros muttered to himself.
"Over twenty large settlements, designated 'city-states.' Countless smaller villages. Continent is mostly mountainous, arable land is scarce. Senatorial government, elected 'Consul,' citizen-militia... they have a localized Imperial Creed. Technology has... progressed, but is still limited."
Phelon, his mouth bloody, spoke bluntly. "Looks like those original Administratum officials just set up their own little republic. This place was a unified kingdom before Compliance. Now it's more shattered than a glass goblet dropped on steel. Still, there's one bit of good news. That Imperial census was wrong. It didn't count women, children, slaves, or 'outsiders' as people."
Petros ignored him. He knew the Warpsmith's mouth never stopped. He turned back to Skaman, speaking in the local dialect. It was crude, but understandable.
"Senator Skaman. Take us to your Consul."
"Wha... What!?" Skaman was still in shock.
Petros sheathed his combat knife, its surface already clean.
"Do not waste my time. I have an entire planet waiting to be subjugated."
